


mighty ones (who do his bidding)

by hoppnhorn



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angel Billy Hargrove, Canon-Typical Violence, Experiment Billy Hargrove, Experiment Eleven, Experiment Will Byers, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-26 01:22:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17736353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoppnhorn/pseuds/hoppnhorn
Summary: He's never been especiallyreligious. Church always felt like some kind of long-winded farce. God and sin and all that praying just never seemedlegit.But seeing an angel makes him wonder if he should reconsider the wholereligionthing.It's a thing to behold, this angel -- in Levi's, a button down and a cigarette in his lips. It's not exactly something out of a bible, the look. But Steve is speechless anyway, mouth open stupidly while he watches."Gonna come out and chat or just stare at me all night?" The angel calls out, not so loud to be heard by anyone besides Steve, but loud enough that Steve knows he's been caught.Gawking like a loser.But not so dumb that he doesn't have his gun raised when he walks out of the shadows."What are you doing?" He asks first, aware that the questionwhat are yougoes unsaid. The angel laughs, smoke billowing out of his nostrils. It's oddly demonic for a man with wings.





	mighty ones (who do his bidding)

**Author's Note:**

> a gift for the one and only [@kelpie-earnest](http://kelpie-earnest.tumblr.com/) after she gifted us with [this masterpiece](http://kelpie-earnest.tumblr.com/post/182535489575/a-city-pigeon)  
> this took a weird turn for me, but I hope y'all enjoy it.

His first tour is the first time he hears the rumors. Far from home, surrounded by murmurs of men, tired and longing for a distraction from the bleak reality of the world.

Anything to curb the growing stone of  _ guilt  _ in each man’s gut. They shouldn’t  _ be here _ , fighting a war when their government tears itself to pieces across the world. It feels a lot like  _ they’re  _ the invaders, staying long passed their welcome.

That’s when the stories start. The ghost story fables of Squad X. 

The name is so fucking  _ stupid _ , it sounds real. Goddamn typical government bullshit, letters and numbers that mean little to nothing in terms of utility. 

Squad X, the rumors say, is a band of freaks. Like the comic books and movies, but deeply classified. Top secret, Area 51 shit. The stuff that gets people killed and men labeled monsters.

Because X means experiment, in Steve’s experience. Scientific concoctions created to make wars easier to win. Worlds easier to conquer.

All Steve can think when he hears the stories is they’re amusing. Created to pass the time.

And they are, mostly. Stories about kids who can throw tanks. Men with wings.

  
  


He comes home from a 12 month tour and his wife, Nancy, is pregnant. It’s a pity, really, because he’d figured maybe they could make it if he came home alive. Turns out she didn’t wait that long. 

So he signs up for another tour, and leaves his wedding band on the kitchen table.

 

 

Things are worse the second time around. Or maybe better, but he can’t help but feel the grind of everyday passing him by. Each order, eroding away at anything left of him, sanding him smooth. Numb. 

He kills because he’s told. He stares at casualties and hears nothing but static. 

They promote him at some point for his skill, his unshakable courage, but nothing changes. He’s still  _ broken  _ but at least he’s effective, his rank spelled out on his uniform in cheap metal. They call him brave but he figures having a death wish isn’t really  _ all that. _

 

 

On his third tour, he’s promoted again and reassigned. Some black ops force, a group of them, riding around without a clue. Who gave the order, who are they out to kill? Not important. 

The only thing Steve knows is no one knows anything. Like what they’re hauling in massive trucks into the middle of the fucking desert. Big heavy suckers, equipped with shit Steve’s never seen.

He figures they’re bombs, or machines to destroy. At this point, nothing would shock him. Why would it? His orders are always the same.

Protect the asset. Take out any obstacles. 

And that’s precisely what he does.

 

 

Until he fails.

 

 

In his  _ defense _ , the asset wasn’t supposed to be  _ living _ . Wasn’t supposed to unlock it’s cage and wander around in the middle of the night, stealing cigarettes. 

But the asset wasn’t supposed to be an angel either.

At least, that’s what Steve sees when he stumbles out of his tent to take a leak. 

Wings, big and white and silent, disappearing around one of the trucks. And it’s Murray’s shift to guard the fucking trucks but Steve knows Murray’s an idiot, so he assumes the worst. 

Grabs his gun to track the thing he saw to the back of the camp, a blind spot away from any sharp eyes. 

Except Steve’s of course. He sees everything.

He’s never been especially  _ religious _ . Church always felt like some kind of long-winded farce. God and sin and all that praying just never seemed  _ legit _ .

But seeing an angel makes him wonder if he should reconsider the whole  _ religion  _ thing. 

It’s a thing to behold, this angel -- in Levi’s, a button down and a cigarette in his lips. It’s not exactly something out of a bible, the look. But Steve is speechless anyway, mouth open stupidly while he watches.

“Gonna come out and chat or just stare at me all night?” The angel calls out, not so loud to be heard by anyone besides Steve, but loud enough that Steve knows he’s been caught.

Gawking like a loser.

But not so dumb that he doesn’t have his gun raised when he walks out of the shadows.

“What are you doing?” He asks first, aware that the question  _ what are you _ goes unsaid. The angel laughs, smoke billowing out of his nostrils. It’s oddly demonic for a man with wings.

And then Steve  _ gets it _ .

The trucks. The secrecy.

“Shit.” He murmurs. 

The angel scrunches up his nose.

“No, I do that in a toilet like the rest of the civilized world.” 

“This is squad X.” Steve murmurs, heart going a million miles an hour behind his ribs. The angel grins, licks his teeth.

“Believe everything you hear, Sergeant?” 

“You’re a goddamn angel.” He hisses, his gun hand starting to waver. “I believe what I see.” 

“The eyes deceive.” The angel purrs at him. “Angels are preachy shits. I’m just a dude with bad luck.” He sucks hard on his cigarette, sighs it out in a white cloud. “What do the stories say about us nowadays?” 

“Us?” Steve breathes, and the angel rolls his eyes.

“Don’t play dumb, sweetheart, I’ve heard the stories.” Then the guy  _ moves _ and Steve almost cries out with surprise, only managing to keep his cool because he can’t find the air to  _ speak.  _

The angel moves in one fluid sweep, wings flapping effortlessly to lift him off the ground, carrying him to where Steve stands. 

Up close, there’s a lot to see. A lot to take in. Gorgeous blue eyes, shining golden hair. Like every image of an angel Steve has ever seen, the man before him is beautiful.

“They still say we have giant, faceless demons?” The angels asks. “Or did that one lose steam after Desert Storm?” 

“No, no demons.” Steve manages to mumble, absolutely captivated by the bright blue eyes that bore into his own. The angel blinks, face set in a devious grin, and steps even closer. 

And that’s when Steve’s gun is wrenched out of his hand. 

“Hey—“ he barely gets a word in before the angel is smothering his shout with a palm, pressing him back against the side of a truck. 

“El, for fuck’s sake, I had it  _ handled _ .”

“He had a gun and you were  _ playing _ with him.” A soft, feminine voice lilts across the air, drawing Steve’s attention away from his captor to a tall, young woman with long, curly brown hair and an irritated scowl. 

His  _ gun _ in her hand. 

“He wasn’t gonna hurt me. Were you?” The angel looks Steve over, eyes finding his badge clipped at his left collarbone. “Harrington.” He smiles, meeting Steve’s stare. “Name’s Billy. That’s—“

“Billy  _ no. _ ” The woman protests, rushing forwards. 

“Billy  _ yes _ .” The angel,  _ Billy _ , counters. “This batch is gonna figure out who we are eventually, sweetheart. Might as well be  _ neighborly _ .” Billy’s hold loosens before he adds. “Please don’t scream, she gets  _ mean _ when they scream.” 

Then his removes his hand, lets Steve breathe free and easy. Lets him stare for a bit before he says. “See that wasn’t so bad.” 

“Who are you?” Steve wheezes out. And Billy grins. 

“We’re the monsters they send in to clean house. Well.” Billy aims a thumb over his shoulder at the woman, who crosses her arms with a shake of her head. “She’s the monster. I’m just handy in a fight.” 

The woman hisses, “Billy,  _ shut up _ .” but he waves a hand at her. Unbothered. 

“She was raised in a lab so her manners are  _ sub par _ at best.”

“In a lab?” Steve manages to ask, not missing how the young woman winces. “Why—“

“Why do they do anything? Because they can.” Billy says harshly. “Why inject a pregnant woman with a bunch of mutated genes or drugs? Because they  _ can _ .” 

Steve breathes hard, the stone in his stomach rolling, guilt rising up like bile. 

“Billy.” The woman says, quieter this time. And the angel blinks, almost like he’s just now seeing Steve’s wide eyes and pale complexion.

“Sorry, Harrington.” He murmurs, stepping away to leave Steve against the truck, twitching and uncertain. “My grudge isn’t with you.” 

And for a second, Billy looks oddly disarmed. Not smiling or baring his teeth like a cunning predator. Then the woman steps closer, pins Steve with a stare.

“We protect.” She says. Then her gaze seems to pour into his consciousness, ripping down his defenses. He can feel her, inside his head and all around him, and for the first time in a long time, he’s truly  _ afraid _ .

But then just as quickly as it begun, it ends, and the woman holds out his gun.

“You’re a good man.” She states as he gently retrieves his weapon. He doesn’t even consider holding it up, aiming it -- it goes straight back in his holster. “You shouldn’t die for her.”

And whatever peace that had fallen over him shatters instantly. 

“What the—“

“She pokes.” Billy says, one large wing sliding between the woman’s face and Steve, effectively hiding her from sight. “Like I said, no manners.” 

“She can read minds?!”

“Um, not exactly.” Billy bites a lip, looks over his wing with a disapproving glare. “El, say you’re sorry.” 

“I wasn’t going to give his gun back without  _ looking _ .” She mutters.

“The correct answer was  _ sorry for poking around in your business Sergeant Harrington _ .”

“I’m not.” Her stubborn voice is barely muffled by feathers. 

“How can she do that?” Steve is trying to not sound hysterical, and failing, but Billy smiles. 

“Think of your brain as a radio. And she can hear a few stations.” Billy arches a brow and puts on a smirk. “If that freaks you out, you won’t be crazy about what she does to people she  _ doesn’t _ like.”

And  _ that _ thought makes Steve shudder. “Or what little Will can do.” 

“Billy  _ stop _ .” El’s voice is stern. Almost angry. And Billy seems to take the hint, stepping away with his hands raised, a sheepish grin on his lips.

“Alright. Alright. Sorry.” He mutters, but not before he shoots a quick wink at Steve. “Always been a sucker for a pretty face.” He adds and Steve’s cheeks  _ heat _ , especially when Billy shoots him a big smile, one designed to break hearts, he imagines. “But he’s gonna find out  _ anyway. _ ”

“There are  _ rules _ .” 

“How many of you are there?” Steve blurts and Billy looks pleased with himself, turns around to eye El over his shoulder. 

“See, he’s curious.”

“Billy.” She says his name quietly, but it’s a warning all the same. 

“Oh lighten up, El.” He grumbles, even though he’s still  _ smiling  _ at Steve. “You think they’re carting us out into the middle of the desert to stay locked up in trucks?” 

“We’re bringing you to a target, right?” Steve takes a step closer and Billy’s eyebrows raise, an amused chuckle popping out of his lips. “That’s what you mean.”

“Yeah, pretty boy. You and your buddies are glorified chaperones.” Billy pulls out a fresh cigarette, lighting it with a bic that he also probably _swiped_ , and sucks down the heat -- an angry red cherry on the end burning bright. “Carting around Pandora’s box, so to speak.” He finally says, the smoke in his lungs billowing from his lips. A familiar scent, in a country full of the exotic, Steve inhales. 

Steps closer still. 

And Billy’s brows arch again, right before he holds out the cigarette. 

Steve had quit in high school, after his grandfather was diagnosed with cancer and the whole summer was fouled by terrible hospital visits and staring death in the face. But the way Billy smokes, holds the cigarette out to him like it’s nothing to accept, chips away at the memories. 

He takes it and pulls hard, doesn’t even  _ cough _ . 

Like a decade hadn’t been enough to kick the habit. 

“So we just sit back and you guys go to work?” 

“It’s not a  _ picnic _ , some participation is required.” The guy  _ grins _ , takes back the smoke and sucks on it until Steve can see his face hollow out, cheekbones sharp. 

Something  _ rabid _ in him stirs and he lets his gaze linger, just a hair too long. 

 

 

It’s three nights later that things finally get interesting. 

He hasn’t actually opened fire in years so his hands are clammy when it’s over and done with -- after charging into a village, retrofitted to something like an army fort. It’d been rough, nasty. Too many people for him to count, all coming for his life.

And for the first time in a while he wasn’t willing to exactly hand it over  _ easily _ . 

He fights like goddamn hell, even uses an empty automatic rifle to beat a man senseless. All to save his own skin. 

Somehow Steve doesn’t feel like he goddamn failed someone when he stands, breathing and alive at the end. 

That’s where Billy finds him, wings tainted with streaks of something drying brown and ugly in his beautiful feathers. It’s a fucking shame but he doesn’t seem to notice. Doesn’t seem to care.

All he does is get a look at Steve and hold out a pack of Marlboro's. 

 

 

Reinforcements arrive a few days after and Steve finds himself in Billy’s truck -- or  _ trailer _ as Billy calls it -- talking about all the new faces around camp. Turns out, this is a regular thing. 

New faces. No one familiar. 

Steve wonders sometimes if Billy is already mourning him, his eyes just a little distant when they talk late at night. Just enough that he wants to prove him wrong.


End file.
